


Mythos

by Ephric



Category: LISA (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 06:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12811827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephric/pseuds/Ephric
Summary: Soon after Buddy's ascent to the throne, a simple Cola merchant ignites the Legend of the One-Eyed Queen.





	Mythos

_"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." - E. Hemingway_

 

[----------------]

 

A finger prodded at his shoulder. "Yo, boss," whined an irritatingly familiar voice.

Fern [Guan](https://soundcloud.com/teamvalentine/summer-love-extended-lisa-the-painful-rpg-ost) did his best to ignore the intruder in his tent, and made a good show of deep slumber; he muttered something incomprehensible, tossed and turned within his coarse bedroll, and faked a snore loud enough to wake the dead.

Unfortunately for him, his efforts were futile; the prodding finger found its way to his bearded cheek.

"Boss. Like, wake up."

Fern stubbornly maintained his facade.

The irksome prodding suddenly vanished. Just as Fern was about to congratulate himself, the finger returned with a hard poke to his face. With a roar of "SWEET OOLONG TEA!", the incensed Cola merchant bolted up to point a burning glare towards the trespasser. As expected, his narrowed gaze found the freckled face of his apprentice and evidently inconsiderate friend, Jonas Apple. The younger man's signature grin did nothing to charm away the flames stoking within Fern's chest.

"Remove that shit-eating grin from your face at once, boy," Fern thundered with his fists clenched, "before I stuff it with something worse."

Jonas spotted Fern's whitening knuckles and straightened his face. He knew his boss well enough to know the man did not give idle threats.

"Sorry, dude," he muttered. "There's talk of the company getting lit again, so I uh... was just wondering if you like... wanted to join..."

The unflinching stare from his middle-aged superior was rapidly beginning to show Jonas the error of his ways.

"Jonas," Fern said, voice ominously low. "Do I look like I want to party at all, at this moment?"

Jonas swallowed. When Fern Guan called him by his proper first name, bad (and loud) things usually followed. "Well no, but-"

"But?"

"Someone brought out a box of tea."

"You know I do not drink that lucrative trash."

Jonas could not help himself; the wry grin sneakily crept back on to his face like a spider to its web. "I mean like, actual tea."

Like most other quality goods, tea had become depressingly rare after the Great White Flash. While replacements such as "lucrative" tea quickly emerged and became commonplace across Olathe, the peculiar taste and mysterious formula of such drinks were enough to discourage most expert drinkers from ever trying another sip. Alas, Fern was an expert among experts, and the disappearance of good tea ranked far above the disappearance of women on the list of things that he lamented in the night. And so, hearing the news instantly put out the fire in Fern's eyes and replaced it with a gleam of astonishment. His posture, like numerous other parts of him, grew erect. Fern just barely managed to fight down his urge to grab Jonas by the collar and shake him silly.

"Mags! How many mags!?" he cried, in a pained voice befitting an addict suffering from withdrawal. "On the honor of the Guan family, I swear to outbid any other offers! If it comes to it, I will even throw in some of our caravan's Cola to sweeten the deal!"

"That's the thing," Jonas said, clearly pleased with himself, "the tea's free for anyone to brew and drink, and there's gonna be a lot of beer and whiskey too. Someone's in a real generous mood, so-"

Fern hopped up and sprinted out of the tent before anything more could be said.

 

\----------------------

 

In the light of the campfire, the surface of the tea glittered like a priceless gem. Fern poked his stout nose over the rim and sniffed.

Exquisite.

With a shuddering moan he lifted the clay mug to his mouth and drank deeply.

_Divine._

Around and above him, tents of all shapes and sizes ringed the narrow gorge. Yet most of the tents were empty; their owners had abandoned them to gather around the bonfires that currently roared across the sandy valley. Here in this divide of rock and earth was a rally of men from every corner of Olathe, and despite this company's diversity in age and race and backgrounds, all were united by the promise of commercial wealth.

This was the Bazaar Fleet, a conglomerate of merchants and traders that was currently taking Olathe by storm. Humbly beginning as a handful of unrecognized traders that decided to band together for safety, the Fleet quickly swept up capable salespeople from all corners of Olathe, until its numbers swelled to over a hundred. That was years ago, long before the mysterious extinction of the Joy mutants that once haunted Olathe, and nowadays the Fleet functioned exceedingly well in its capacity as a mobile market; it traveled swiftly to all corners of the fractured desert country, and in doing so it consolidated as much information as it did profit. Those who joined the Fleet were free to travel with it as long as they paid a tax, which most happily did; Fern, Jonas, and their Cocola-Cola caravan had been with the Fleet for several months now, and they had no intention of setting off on their own any time soon.

Fern took a long look around the clamorous gorge and impassively observed the festivities unfolding around him. Parties like this were common with the Fleet, and like always, most of the men had splintered out into the same cliques where they yelled and joked and drank. Just about every face he could see was flushed pink from inebriation, and the scent of alcohol on the air was so thick that Fern was amazed that the canyon had not exploded into an inferno. The unruly atmosphere had also inspired daring feats among the drunkest; quite a few wrestling matches had broken out by now, and one bare-chested, fish-head wearing man was flopping wildly about the scene. Most appallingly, Fern spotted one muscular fellow lying on a bench and hoisting several refrigerators (which he did not know the Fleet carried) while a ring of onlookers chanted "UH HUH" with each successful repetition of the movement.

They were a rowdy, ragtag bunch; still, Fern had developed a fondness for the company. Most of the members were friendly enough, and lively celebrations such as this one reminded him of the older and better days, in the time before the Flash that most now called the Old World. Shadows danced across the valley walls as the flames roared and twisted and turned. His own silhouette, brought to life by the humble campfire that he had ignited to boil water for his tea, sat comparatively still and far away from all the others. Overhead, the faint pale outline of the moon had started to peek through the purple clouds and streaks of orange lining the dusking sky. Night came irregularly in Olathe, and the appearance of such a rare event only gave the party more cause to celebrate. Jonas had long since departed on a mission to get black-out drunk, and Fern was okay with that; all that mattered in this tranquil moment was the tea in his cup, the water boiling in his pot, and the warm fire by his feet.

Everyone here had lost something in the Flash, but on nights like these, life was good.

Just then, a plump balding man with a 5 o'clock shadow waddled over and took a seat by Fern. Even as he was occupied with indulging in the first proper tea he'd had in months, Fern was polite enough to give the man a nod of acknowledgement. After all, they had known each other for several months now; this was Lester Hatterson, full-time firearms dealer and former Russian Roulette game host. Fern did not like this man, not least of all because his fedora was much too small for his bulbous head and the resulting sight was disturbing. Across the rest of the Bazaar Fleet, the man was accordingly controversial; his impressive stock of arms drew in many buyers, while anecdotes of his past occupation kept just as many away.

So Fern was immediately alarmed by Lester's sudden and unannounced appearance, and the fact that he was clutching something in his hand. When Lester brought the object to his fleshy lips and revealed it was just a bottle, Fern almost sighed with relief. Still, he missed being alone already.

"Master Hatterson," he greeted anyway. "How may I help you?"

"Eh, just thought I'd catch up with ya. Haven't seen you or your boy since we set up shop here," Lester answered. "How ya been, my cola-sellin', tea-sippin' friend?"

Fern stopped himself mid-sip in a subtle act of defiance. "I have been well," he said, hoping the simplicity of his flat answer would bore Lester. There was an awkward pause, and then Lester guffawed. Fern found even that detestable; it was a sort of greasy, insincere laughter that rolled off the skin in globs.

"'Well', he says! Heh heh! Well, that's great!" Lester parroted. "I've been 'well' myself, thanks for askin'. Where's the kid? He's usually more interestin' to talk to."

Fern stiffened. Lester thought himself a glib and persuasive individual, and one of his hobbies was telling exaggerated stories and outright lies; meanwhile, Jonas had a poor habit of eating up just about everything he offered. As Fern readied another dismissive reply, his subordinate stumbled in with a plate of jerky in hand.

"Hey boss, hungry?" Jonas asked, more sober than Fern had expected he'd be by now. "Oh, nice to see you, Mr. H."

"Good to see ya too, kid!" Lester greeted happily as he snatched a hunk of jerky off the plate. "Was just makin' small talk with Mista Guan. Good of ya to think of him when you could be drownin' your sorrows."

"Wasn't a big deal," Jonas shrugged, though he did look the slightest bit flattered. Fern barely managed to suppress an eye roll.

"Really though," Lester continued. "A respectful apprentice like that ain't easy to come by these days."

"Well, uh, with like, all due respect, Mr. H," Jonas countered nervously, "it's just as hard to find a boss as talented as Mr. Guan."

"Jeez, will ya look at this kid!" Lester exclaimed. "Even knows how to talk respect. Well, go on kid, what kinda talent does your boss have that makes 'im so special?"

Exhausted by the conversation, Fern took a long-desired drink from his cup.

"Well, for one, he tells stories like no one else can. It's radical."

Fern nearly choked.

"That so?" Lester asked. The slight frown on his face dismayed Fern; as expected, the man had taken Jonas's statement as a challenge.

"Totally," Jonas said. "It's like, a Guan family tradition. I swear, you've never heard anything-"

"Jonas," Fern said sharply. "That's quite enough, thank you."

"No no no," Lester countered, wagging a finger and staring pointedly at Fern. "That's not quite enough. Known you fellas for months now and I ain't ever heard about this. Why's that?"

"Oh, er..." Fern hoped his face did not betray his unease. "I fear I have grown... how do you say? Rusty? I have not told stories in a while."

"So you haven't done it at all these last coupla months?"

"Well..."

"Well! I think now's a good time to grease 'em wheels, eh?" Lester quipped, as he lightly elbowed Fern in the side. "I'm bored outta my mind and a cozy story by the campfire might just fix that. Pretty please, with a cherry on top?"

Fern opened his mouth to politely refuse.

"Yeah, boss!" pleaded Jonas. "I haven't heard you tell a story in like, forever! C'mon!"

The glimmer of excitement in his apprentice's eyes was powerful, and Fern bit his lip. He knew his storytelling was special to the boy; at their first meeting years ago, Jonas - a violent bandit then - tried to rob Fern at gunpoint on the Long 70 trade route. However, the threat of death did not intimidate Fern, who then invoked a riveting tale about the inherent goodness of humanity and the value of resolving matters without violence. Inspired by Fern's confident pacifism, Jonas handed over his rifle without hesitation. Then he tried to wrestle the gun back and Fern used it as a club to beat him to within an inch of his life, and the young man finally saw the error of his ways.

"Very well, you have convinced me," Fern said at last with a heavy sigh. "Do not say I did not warn you, though, when my performance disappoints. You see, I have a younger cousin that is apparently much better at-"

"Yeah yeah yeah," Lester said dismissively, grinning so widely that Fern could count all the teeth he was missing. He turned his fat head to the teeming partygoers and shouted. "HEY FELLAS! When you're done gettin' sauced, come an' hear the great Fern Guan tell a story!"

Fern wanted to cup his face out of embarrassment; he had expected his audience to be only Jonas and Lester, and not a single person more. As a score of curious folk advanced upon his secluded spot by the valley wall, Fern's mind raced to decide on a proper story.

Perhaps the Tale of Chang'e? No. Most of the fools here would ridicule the plot and make lewd comments about the Moon goddess.

The Legend of King Arthur? Not that either, since he had forgotten too much of it to do it justice.

Then a shiver ran up his spine as one particular story hopped to the forefront of his mind, for he knew it to be true; he'd first heard it in a report from one of his informants, who operated near the east-west border of Olathe. He had not believed the man's story, at first. Who would? Even the most narcotized junkie would scoff at the notion that each of Olathe's most influential warlords had been slaughtered within days of each other. Then, the weeks that followed brought further testimonies from other travelers who walked the roads by the border, and then it became clear to Fern that his messenger had not been mistaken.

"You got a story in mind, boss man?" he heard Jonas ask. "No need to worry. I do," Fern replied. An important one at that, he thought; a story destined to pass into legend, and live as long as there were people alive to tell it.

 

\----------------------

 

Among the dark silhouettes scattered and flickering across the sand-blasted canyon wall, Fern Guan's stood tallest. As he paced around the fire pit, he quaffed what remained of his second serving of tea, and then bent down to hand the mug to Jonas, who sat right before him and next to Lester. Encircling them were the huddling forms of dozens of others who cared enough to hear Fern's piece. Though his face bore a stoic expression, the storyteller was somewhat taken aback by the unexpectedly large turnout. He conducted a quick head count; at least fifty, and more were trickling in. Fern gulped, then raised a fist to his mouth as he coughed to clear his throat.

"Esteemed merchants," he gestured meaningfully at random people, "peddlers, and traders too. It is a pleasure to see you all here today, in good health-"

"Ah, get on with it, fella!" Lester quipped, flashing a small grin that seemed friendly, but was likely meant to be mocking. "We don't got all night!"

The obnoxiously loud snickers that followed seemed to show everyone else's approval.

"...Very well," Fern said, as he bit his tongue to quell the rising frustration. "Today, I bring you all the legend of the last woman in Olathe. The Big Girl."

Everyone here knew the story: nearly two years ago, a girl - the last girl in Olathe, and probably the world - had appeared from nowhere and then disappeared just as quickly. For most, this is where the story came to an unfortunate end. The faded posters that had been pinned up in a rabid effort to spread the news and find her still remained on hundreds of walls across the region, and while most passersby ignored them, others viewed them as perpetual reminders of their own unresolved lusts and failure to save mankind from certain doom. But the term "Big Girl" was new, so the younger traders wolf-whistled and hooted, letting loose a slew of obnoxious fantasies and erotic boasts.

"'Big Girl' eh? You calling her that 'cuz she's got big ol' tits that bounce around when she hops?"

"Haha, puffy vulva!"

"Me gustan traseros grandes y no puedo mentir."

"Hell yeah! She's just gotta have a fat ass. Just like in the mags."

"Man, I'd fuck her armpit. Left or right, doesn't matter to me."

"I- wait, huh?"

"Yeah, that's... boring and weird. I'll pass."

"Verily, a most unique fascination, but I too find it unappealing."

"... Okay, guess I'm alone on that one..."

Fern's sudden irritated coughs began to quiet the rowdy ones; Jonas Apple was not the only man that knew the Eastern merchant's temper. While this went on, most of the older and well-connected merchants were silent; unlike their younger and more naive peers, they realized that the story they were in for was not sexy. Though some of the facts still remained uncertain, they had received enough news from enough credible sources to determine where the girl had gone after her trail went cold.

The verdict was troubling, to say the least.

Some had even seen proof with their own eyes. Lester's teasing smirk was long gone, his mind elsewhere as he recalled his last visit to Vega Van Dam's territory. Hoping to wheel and deal the warlord, he had instead found a butchered corpse; the throat was cut, and that disingenuous smile, once blinding with charm, had been sliced from ear to ear.

So Lester, Fern, and all the other grim old merchants knew this: the Big Girl was real, and whether they liked it or not her shadow loomed over them all, vast and unfathomable as the night sky.

As speculative talk of the Big Girl's feminine traits died down among the masses of sex-deprived men, Fern resumed.

"Before I begin, I must offer a word of warning," he cautioned, his voice sharpened with dramatic ardor, "the pages of this story - every word of which I swear to be true - are steeped in blood. It is not for the faint of heart-" Once again, there was an interjection.

"Aha!" jeered someone from within the crowd. "You hear that, Tim? Fuck off outta here! This is a big boy's story!"

"Fuck you, Jimmy! Get your ass over here so I can kick it!" Amongst the din of whoops, hollers, and robust laughter, Fern rubbed his temples and regretted all the life choices he had made up until this point. Except for those involving tea.

"EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Lester abruptly roared, startling Fern out of his moment of self-pity. "I'm tryin' to listen here, gentlemen, and I promise I'm gonna personally whack the next fella who interrupts Mista Guan!" As if by magic, the valley fell silent in an instant. Most people tried to avoid triggering Fern Guan's temper, but absolutely everyone took care to avoid triggering Lester Hatterson's.

Following a nod of approval from Lester, Fern drew a breath in through his nose and spoke on.

“Thank you, Master Hatterson, and um... so, that being said, let us begin.” With that, Fern began to paint the first pictures of the story within his [mind](https://soundcloud.com/kill-la-kill-ost/kiryuu-ga-kill?in=user-148967737/sets/regis).

 

\----------------------

 

_A sky the color of dull tin arched above. The soil was tarry with blood; the air thick with iron. Chipped swords and broken spears jutted from the pools like grave markers, and the rancid bodies of men and mutants alike roasted in the sun. A lone tumbleweed rolled and bounced across the ground. Alone on this patch of ragged earth, the Big Girl knelt with hands resting on the pommel of her saber, its silver tip buried firmly before her. Her right eye was closed in contemplation; the other lay hidden beneath wrappings._

"Her quest began with a vision," Fern announced, "a vision of royalty."

_Like crow feathers, her thick black hair fluttered in the hot desert breeze. Old wounds etched against the pale skin of each wiry arm, and a gust of wind lifted her poncho to reveal another set of battle-scars that adorned her lithe body. Nine names blazed scarlet on the concrete wall that loomed over her; eight names were crossed off. A murder of crows roosted atop The List, beaks stuffed with carrion._

"You see, the Big Girl wanted to grow bigger," he explained. "Being strong was not enough; she wanted her power to be unchallengeable."

"So she wanted to become a Big Bitch," someone muttered, to the amusement of absolutely no one.

"Perhaps, but I feel the term 'Queen' is more succinct," Fern suggested. "And she'd decided that she would earn her place on a Queen's throne fairly, with a payment of blood."

He drew a breath in concentration, and his eyes closed.

_Her eye opened, and she pulled the saber from the throat of the mutant she rested on. As hot lifeblood erupted from the giant's shuddering corpulence, the Big Girl's empty gaze rose to the pinnacle of The List. The last name sat there untouched, like a jar of candy on a high shelf._

"To that end, there were nine men that she needed to slay, and here at this point in our story, eight already lay dead or defeated." The row of seasoned merchants exchanged knowing looks. "Now, she sets off to pursue the last."

_The wind at her back calmed her as she turned and marched alone into the wastes. The feverish sunlight dimmed, then gave way to nightfall. She pressed onwards._

"Of course, her journey does not go untroubled," continued Fern. "By day, by night... fiends pursue her for their own wicked purposes. Some are unlucky enough to find their mark."

_Dawn._

_The earth shuddered as a wall of spears and knives and clubs descended upon her. She lifted her arm past her shoulder, fingers resting on the ribboned pommel of her saber. Her single eye glinted sanguine against the rising sun._

"Fueled by aching inhuman desires, the barbarians charge. Those behind yell: **'Forward!'** "

_She could see them now; greasy, soiled hands reaching for her, ravenous for the soft flesh of woman. Little did they know, her flesh was scarred and rough._

_The steel came unsheathed._

"But those in front cry: **'Back!** '"

_The last men standing threw down their arms, pig-like faces crumpled with fear. She pointed her saber and let it guide her to them._

_They ran. Not fast enough._

_Around her, the air glistened scarlet with blood_.

"Like a hot knife through butter, the Big Girl cuts down all in her way with ease," Fern spoke somberly, as if in prayer for those slaughtered. "Each corpse makes for a grisly stair, 'til she gathers enough to climb to the end of her quest: an ancient tower enclosed with countless graves, under a swift void of midnight."

Some of the audience leaned forward in anticipation, others awaited with bated breath, and still others peeked nervously up to search the night sky for a hint of stars. Lester whispered to Jonas just loudly enough for Fern to hear: "Wow, he really is good at this."

Fern's expression did not betray his complacency. The images reeled on before his mind's eye. "The long journey had tired her; she comes to rest at the foot of the tower," he proceeded. "But in the gloom above, something vast and terrible moves."

_She was not alone. She looked up and squinted into the[darkness](https://soundcloud.com/hollow-yami-shiningami/liar-mask-instrumental?in=user-148967737/sets/regis)._

"And as the dark storm clouds part and the full moon peers in, behold! Her last and greatest foe, perched upon the tower and peering down with blood-red eyes, jewels mined from the depths of Hell itself!"

_Death stared her in the face. The Girl stared back._

"His immense boots are marked with the remains of vanquished foes."

_She looked closely. Bits of crushed bone were embedded into each sole._

"His belt... buckled by the golden head of a bull, taken as a trophy from a man he ripped apart with his bare hands."

_It glittered at her in the dark. Vigorous. Aggressive._

"The coarse pelt of his coat is stained black with old blood, but unblemished by blade or bullet."

_No man could touch him. He destroyed anyone before they stood a chance._

"And sitting atop those armored shoulders, on a crimson scarf and a blue cape studded with white spots..."

_She drew her sword; pale-blue moonlight glittered along the edge._

"...was a Wolf's head."

Fern paused to make way for the first hushed comments. As he expected, word spread rapidly among the spectators.

"Wait a sec, a Wolf's Head..."

"Is he talking about... That's Big Lincoln!"

"The most powerful warlord in Olathe?!"

"Obviously, retard! Who else is crazy enough to wear a Wolf's head AND kick ass doing it?"

"They say he's the best in the world!"

As they chattered about, the narrator smiled; he had utterly captivated his audience. All according to keikaku, he thought. And keikaku means plan.

"Mute as Death, the Wolf climbs down from his tall seat and pounces upon the girl before she can strike. Gripping her in a crimson claw, he raises her high into the air..." Fern lifted a calloused fist, his tall menacing silhouette following suit on the wall behind him. As he flung it towards the ground, his voice rose to a shout, "...and he brings her down with such unholy force that the very earth fractures, and ghosts from Hell flee through the cracks!"

The onlookers exchanged excited and horrified glances. Anyone who had heard of Big Lincoln had also heard of that infamous technique; such hearsay alone had been enough to keep people far away from his territory.

"Big Lincoln...!" came the awed whispers. "Big Lincoln sends you to Hell!"

"Dust and debris from the impact clouds the air," Fern continued, and the mutters died off. "The Wolf lumbers forth and sniffs deep, hungry for the long-forgotten scent of a woman's blood." A brief pause.

"What he finds instead," Fern lowered his voice, "is the scent of fuel and fire."

_By the time he saw the firebombs spinning through the haze, it was too late. Diesel covered him and burst alight._

"The beast wails as his flesh blackens and chars! He catches sight of his enemy..."

_Through his pained vision,_ _he watched a tiny shape dance across the flames_.

"In a blind rage, he hammers down with a burning paw..."

_He was the strongest in the world._

"But then... a bright shimmer, faster than the blink of an eye!" Fern cried. "And the Girl pierced the Wolf's belly and tore it wide open!"

_But against that speed, all his might counted for nothing._

Fern's heart beat like the hooves of a race horse and deafened him; again, he breathed in deeply through his nose and out of his mouth. The thrumming of his pulse slowed.

"And so the Wolf, who had grown fat long ago upon the spoils of a thousand battles, became the prey. The Huntress moves in for the kill."

_He fell to his knees, howling in desperate fury as he bled and burned._ _She emerged from the smoke, beast blood dripping from her radiant sword._

"She looks upon her wounded quarry, not with hatred or pity or Joy, but a heightened sense of things."

_He glared fiercely into the girl's one eye. It was jet-black; vacant in her focus as she leveled her blade._

"Her grip on the saber is steady. Her form..."

_A flash of silver crossed his vision._

"Perfect."

**_The Wolf's head fell from his neck._ **

 

\----------------------

 

A cool wind from the east blew through the desert night and into the valley; it howled like the moans of a dying wolf. The gentle glow of the campfire blinked and went out. The men sat hushed and still. Fern paced around a few moments longer, and then addressed his audience in solemn [admonition](https://soundcloud.com/immortalavenger/eye-water?in=user-148967737/sets/regis).

"And so that hapless little girl, who stood alone in a world of monsters that sought to ravage and rape her," he took a brief moment to shoot disdainful glances towards some of the younger merchants, "ascended from the bloody abyss to reach her throne atop the world."

"And there she sits now, no longer as a girl, or even a Big Girl," he crouched down to take his mug back from Jonas. "But as a Queen." He gave the petrified young man a nod, and ladled water from the pot into the cup.

"Aye," he muttered as he brought the steaming mug to his lips. "The One-Eyed Queen of Olathe."

There was a long, tense silence. Unspoken questions lingered in the air like gun smoke until a serene voice called out from the back of the crowd and broke the haze.

"A good story," said the voice, which belonged to a bespectacled young man wearing a light beard, "and very well-delivered, but inauthentic. As you said yourself, it is but a legend"

"Hey, what's ya name?" Lester piped up, before Fern could even begin to think of an answer.

"Ezekiel," came the reply.

"Ezekiel? That name fucking sucks!" Lester huffed triumphantly, as he jumped to his feet and whirled around to sneer at the heckler. "And your sources suck too, if ya even got any!"

The man looked completely unmoved by the outburst, but also did not offer any retort. Lester went on, sweeping his livid gaze across the crowd as he boomed.

"Like it or not, fellas, just about every word outta Mista Guan's mouth was true. I got more private eyes across Olathe than all of youse combined and they've all been singin' the same tune: that little minx chopped up Big Lincoln and Sindy Gallows and all the other badasses on The List, and now she's out there, lyin' in wait for God-knows-what."

"So," said Ezekiel, "like everyone else, you've no idea where she is? Despite all your sources?"

"Nah," Lester shrugged. "But I've been hearing rumors. Some folks out west are sayin' the mutants are gone 'cuz of her, that when she says 'jump', those freakshows ask 'how high'."

"...Impossible."

"Again," Lester said. "Got no clue. But my men are never wrong."

Lester's answer earned quite a few skeptical looks. However, those were outnumbered by the apprehensive; a chorus of nervous whispers broke out as fearful conjecture began to spread throughout the camp.

"What's she doing?" Jonas asked first, his face wan and sweaty. "Like, building an army, or something?"

"Maybe, kid," Lester said. "Or maybe she's killing them all. Either way... Olathe as we knew it changed the day we got a Queen."

"Madness and stupidity. We have no Queen," Ezekiel insisted with frustration. "I didn't vote for her."

"Kek," someone snickered. "Four-eyes thinks democracy is still a thing."

"This is serious. She's a threat to the Fleet! To our good business!"

"Gentlemen! Please calm down!"

"Oh shit. If she comes rolling down the hills with an army of those things at her back, I'm done. I'll just beg for mercy."

"What makes ya think she'll show any? Just run."

"And die tired? Nah."

As he slipped from the minds of Jonas and Lester and everyone else, Fern added fresh tinder to the pit and sparked embers into the kindling. Meanwhile, the discourse surrounding him flourished; others shuffled in from around the valley to join the heated discussion, and each speculative word tended the blooming flames of the Queen's mythic tale, until at last the entire Bazaar Fleet burned with rumors of her peerless swordplay, and her fierce beauty, and her unstoppable legion of abominable soldiers.

The column of smoke from the newborn fire billowed and grew, and he watched it rise far beyond the steep cliffs overlooking the valley. And as Fern Guan sat by those roaring flames with a cup in his hand and a song in his heart, he thought of Beowulf tearing off Grendel's monstrous arm, and of Susanoo dismembering the eight-headed serpent Orochi.

Eyes ablaze with pride, Fern decided the Legend of the One-Eyed Queen deserved a place among those undying fables.

He also decided that cousin Nern could go suck eggs, because tonight, he had clearly proven himself the better storyteller.

 

[--------------------]

 

"[Ma.](https://soundcloud.com/jake-darmetta-jakethesnake012/here-with-you-mirai-nikki?in=user-148967737/sets/regis) Ma muh."

The infant's hungry cry roused Buddy from sleep. The meager fire she had built to warm the cavern had diminished to cinders at some point in the night, so she perceived her son only by the heat of his tiny body and his restless wiggling against her stomach. The rough fabric of the poncho he was wrapped in - Brad's old tattered poncho - chafed against her naked skin as she hugged him close and sat up.

"I'm here," she crooned. "Mama's here." With one hand she cradled the boy's head to her breast, and with the other she gently caressed his back. As he suckled, Buddy leaned back against the cave wall and reminisced.

Years ago, when Uncle Sticky had described her responsibility as mankind's last hope, he had mentioned comforting terms such as "consent", "intimacy", even "pleasure". Her first and only experience ended up proving him a liar; there had been only teeth and tongues and fists and fingers, and a strange new pain that broke her into a thousand jagged pieces. Naturally, she had killed the son of a bitch - and every night she butchered him again in her dreams - but by then the seed had already taken root inside of her.

As her belly swelled with child, Buddy's heart had filled with the kind of anguish that drowned one's spirit and anchored it beneath the waves. It wasn't the new scars on her body that despaired her, but rather the fact that after all the blood and sweat and tears that she'd shed, some minuscule part of her remained weak and exploitable, and for that she had earned the kind of wound that no binding could ever mend.

And it was that festering mark on her heart that had driven her off into the wasteland one more time, trumpet in hand and sword on her back, with Brad following closely as a makeshift pack mule. The aimless months that followed were spent gathering Joy mutants and charming them to consume each other until nothing remained. Olathe grew safer with each monster's passing, but watching those deformed beings tremble in orgies of meat and blood brought no relief from the burden inside her, which grew heavier with each day.

Looking back now, Buddy realized that it hadn't just been an angry, broken heart that sent her on that futile journey; she had come a long way to reach her throne, and sitting on it had fooled her into believing she had finally eluded the fates that Brad and Dustin had weaved for her. She did not know that her chance at freedom was already behind her, lost years ago on that barren plain that Brad had first plucked her from. So that last crusade had been one more feeble attempt at escaping her destiny, which accompanied her unceasingly as the mindless beast that used to be Brad, and as the child stirring in her womb.

In the end, she had failed all the same.

When the day came that her size finally slowed her to a waddle, she had taken refuge in the first hole she stumbled across and ordered Brad to guard the front of the cave with his unyielding bulk. Not long after, the pressure between her legs grew so tremendous that she could no longer even stand, and as she lowered herself against the cave wall with saber in hand, she steeled herself for the battle to come.

The pain arrived at first light, and it had been [astounding](https://soundcloud.com/user-10406090/attack-on-d?in=user-148967737/sets/regis); her mouth opened again and again to fling curses upon Brad and Dustin and the nameless asshole who had done this to her, but only horrific screams emerged from her parched throat. In that chaotic windstorm, it was her saber that had kept her lucid; planted into the cavern floor, it had cracked the stone beneath her adrenalized strength as childbirth wrenched and shredded her down the middle. Even in her bleakest hour, the sword remained as firm and true to her as it had ever been, until at last the infant slipped out from within her and writhed in a puddle of slimy filth.

With gritted teeth and trembling hands, she pulled the saber from the rock and brought it down on the cord to cut her child free, and then tossed the blade to the side. As the last of the pain ebbed away, Buddy had ripped the poncho off her back and wrapped it around the quivering purple shape of her newborn infant. In the cold morning light cast in from the cavern entrance, she embraced her destiny with uncertain awe and wondered if it mattered at all that he was a boy.

Then he opened his mouth, and his first cries echoed into the cave and across the world.

When the infant's eyes opened moments later, looking into them had overwhelmed Buddy with an extraordinary fear that clotted her throat like cobwebs, and hailed back a memory so old and forgotten that it could have gathered dust: it is nighttime there, and her younger self sits beside Brad on top of their hut. Together, they watch as the clouds drift over an ocean of stars; then, a great bright sapphire glides across that cold pale sea, trailing silver in its wake.

"Wow," she breathes, young eyes aglow with starlight. "What is that?"

"A shooting star," he says gruffly. "Make a wish."

"You first!" she chirps, impulsive and curious.

He sits as still and quiet as an oak tree after that, until the leaping star plummets behind a wall of mountains far to the north and escapes from view.

"No, thank you," comes the soft answer, and Buddy only hides her disappointment because of how fragile he sounds.

Brad did not believe in the shooting star; that distant apex of an impossible dream that eluded him from the start and receded further by the second. She hadn't believed in it either, because wishes and miracles and all the other good things that people prayed for had died with the Old World, and she made her peace with that.

But in her arms now was a baby - her baby - with light gossamer hair that would thicken to feathers with age, and brilliant dark eyes that regarded her not with obsession or fear, but only wonder. Dustin had been wrong after all; she was not the future. Her child was, and this venomous world didn't deserve him because everything about him was good.

Still, Buddy wouldn't claim to love the boy; love meant years squandered away in a moldy cellar and the restrictive vigilance of broken people who thought they knew best. So in place of love, she held hopes; glimpses of his first bumbling walk, and flower-picking under a swift sunset, and one fine morning, when he had grown tall enough to reach up and tug at his mother's raven locks-

Her child burped, then dozed off against her chest.

The vision of royalty had come true; she was the Queen, and Olathe her kingdom - but her Prince meant the world.

"Good night, Kiddo."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Special Thanks:   
> Andy, Arthur, Chloe, Conner, Piera, Steven, and Weston: Thank you for your help. You drive me to better myself, and I wouldn't trade any of you for the world. (Except for you, Andy. Please make your criticism constructive)
> 
> My brother.
> 
> Dingaling: For creating the world and story of LISA. Release Ninja Tears, please.
> 
> My high school English teachers: For telling me how bad my writing was and inspiring me to improve.
> 
> And of course, THANK YOU FOR READING!


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